


Possessed

by coveredbyroses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abduction, Blow Jobs, Brainwashing, Cages, Captivity, Coercion, Collars, Come Swallowing, F/M, Fear, Forced Orgasm, Hypnosis, Leashes, Manipulation, Mind Control, Restraints, Sexual Slavery, Threats, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-01-25 13:41:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18575626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: Finally in possession of his perfect vessel, Michael can begin his mission. You’re his first experiment.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I will update the tags as the series progresses.

“Michael.” It’s just a whisper; shaky and laced with heart-shattering defeat. Sam sounds so utterly broken that it almost numbs the fear icing up your veins. The Archangel glances at the three of you, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His eyes flicker around the church, and you know he’s just trying them out, getting used to the feel of them.

“Thanks for the suit,” he says, and it sounds so horrible in Dean’s baritone. You’ve just noticed the victorious dip of his chin when your head goes fuzzy, gut flip-flopping with the irritatingly familiar effects of teleportation.

You stumble a bit at new ground; plush carpet instead of worn stone. A quick sweep around tells you you’re in a five-star hotel room, way more expensive than any you’ve ever set foot in before. There’s a bed to your left, king-sized with a cream colored comforter, and a mini hallway just ahead that leads to the door. It isn’t even a thought, you just start marching toward the exit-

“Ah-ah-ah,” The staccato warning halts your movements, and you grit your teeth at it, slowly turning to face the sound.  

Michael stands with his back to the wide, curtained window. He’s wearing a suit; a three piece complete with waist coat and pocket watch, the chain glinting under the dim light. His arms are thick, straining against the crisp sleeves of the white dress shirt, fingers lax and slightly curled.

“Why?” you ask, voice dry and strained with the effort of keeping it steady.

“Why?” the Angel repeats, blinking at you like he doesn’t understand the question, but a knowing smirk faintly tugs at his lips; he’s toying with you.

“Why did you take me?” The tremor is audible in your words, but maybe he didn’t hear it.

He waits several beats before answering, takes two predatory steps forward. “Think of this…as an experiment,” he says, head tilting as he waits for a reaction. When none comes, he continues. “You see, I find the human mind a very curious thing; how easily it can be…molded…programmed - if you will.”

“What the hell?” Anger is quickly diluting the fear, and you can feel your cheeks heat up with it. “You think I’m a goddamned  _science_  experiment?!”

His smirk doesn’t falter as his shoulders lift in a careless shrug. “You won’t die, if that’s your concern.”

Your breath quickens, chest tightening at the rising panic. “You…you can’t…this is…no. You just… _can’t!”_

Oxygen becomes scarce as he nears you, stopping when he’s close enough to get two thick fingertips against your forehead.

“Rest, hunter,” he says, voice low and smooth. “You’re going to need it.”


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally in possession of his perfect vessel, Michael can begin his mission. You’re his first experiment.

You wake on the bed, still fully clothed - boots still laced up neat, and get your fingers against your eyelids, rubbing the sleep away. The pale curtains are awash in a pink glow, and the big green numbers on the digital clock tell you it’s just after dawn.

You’re careful in your movements, sure that Michael’s still somewhere in the room, but your ears are only met with a vast silence. You let your feet land softly against the carpet, hand reaching behind in search for your cell - gone. You turn around, pat against the comforter in case it’s slipped out during sleep, but you know better, know Michael would have taken every precaution.

A quick glance around the room tells you there’s no phone, no call for help, no rescue. Your feet are swift as they carry you down the short hall to the door, and warm relief floods your veins when the lock disengages, door pulling open-

Only to deflate at the sight of a black brick wall; solid and cold to the touch. You get a palm against it, pressing and pushing like you might find some secret pressure point that will lead to your release.

Nothing.

You whirl back around to face the large window, sheer curtains still bathed in that early morning glow. Long strides get you there, and you rip the thin material to peer into the morning-

It’s a straight drop the street below; no balcony, no ledge. A chill traces your spine at the realization of how very trapped you are; stranded several stories high, bricked into a luxurious prison.

*

You’ve paced enough that you’re surprised you haven’t walked a trench into the carpet. You’ve been awake five hours now, panicked and shaky, explored every square inch of the suite just to take your mind off of your predicament. In any other situation, this place would have been your ultimate fantasy, but not here, not now. Now when you’ve snatched away against your will, left alone with no phone, no form of communication. You’ve tried to pray to Cas, to Jack, but there’s been no answer.

You’re thankful for the view, even though there’s a feeling in your gut that it isn’t real, that it’s just an illusion. But it at least gives you a distraction, gives you something to focus on. You watch the people ambling along the sidewalks below, small enough to be ants from your distance, and you wonder if they’re actual living people, or if they’re something like dream characters - maybe this is all a dream; a very  _lucid_  dream. Maybe you’re back at that church, knocked unconscious - you just need to wake up.

The sound of rustling feathers pulls you from your musings, and you turn from the window to see Michael standing in the dining area, the fingers of his right hand playing with the ivory table cloth.

The table is filled with steaming silver dinnerware, enough for a feast - there’s at least three different types of meat, a plethora of vegetables, and a generous assortment of pies and various other desserts, and expensive champagne sits in a bucket of ice.

“What is this?” you croak, voice rough from hours of silence.

“A meal,” Michael says, like you’ve just asked what year it is.

“It’s noon. Isn’t this a little excessive?”

The Archangel smiles, turns to scoop up the champagne and a crystal glass. “I know you’re hungry,” he says, pale gold liquid glug-glugging up to the lip. He extends his arm, offering the beverage to you.

You glare at him, insulted that he’d think you stupid enough to take a drink from him. He dips his chin.

“Relax. If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

You let out a breath at that, then walk the short distance to meet him, fingers gently slipping the glass from his. He gestures toward a cushioned dining chair at the end of the table as you take the first sip, and you oblige him, decide it best to pick your battles.

It doesn’t take long for you to fill your plate, and your belly aches at just the smell of it. Michael takes a seat at the opposite end of the table, clasps his hands and rests his chin against his knuckles, just watches.

You’re shoveling the food in, manners be damned because you’ve been kidnapped, starved, and you can’t even remember the last time you ate. You pause, let your fork clink against your plate so you can gulp down the champagne.

“See what I can offer you?” Michael says, velvet voice rolling through the quiet. “I can treat you well.”

You go tense at the words, at the implications. You set your glass down and wipe at your mouth with the cloth napkin. Your eyes go hard, leveling with his as you suck at your teeth.

“What do you want?”

The Angel lays his still folded hands on the table and gives you a tight-lipped smile.

“Your obedience.”

You straighten at that, ice seeping into your blood despite your best efforts. You wet your lips, keep your expression deadpan.

“You’ll never get it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure.” His smile is chilling, eyes dead. “See - I could do things…horrible things…I could gut Sam right here, right in front of you.” His smile blossoms into the widest, sickening grin. “I could make sure Dean saw it all.”

Your mouth goes bone dry, and you take another swallow of your drink to combat it.

“ _Or_ ,” Michael continues, “you could submit to me; make this easy on yourself…and the Winchesters.”

Plate half eaten, you’re suddenly not hungry anymore, and you push it away, get your elbows up on the table to scrub both hands over your face.

“Why?” you whisper, tucking your hair behind your ears.

Michael has the audacity to actually roll his stolen eyes at that. “We’ve been over this already-”

“Yeah, I’m an experiment. I got that. I just want to know  _why_.”

The Archangel sighs, smiles almost kindly. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“I need an army.”

“You know people are less likely to fight for you if you force them.”

“Oh, I won’t be forcing anyone.” His eyes go even colder, and you swallow.

“So that’s the experiment then,” you say eyes darting with dawning realization. “You want to program humans…Oh my god.”

Michael smiles again, huffs a clipped laugh, then pushes back in his chair and rises. “I’m a scientist as much as a warrior,” the Angel admits. “I like to observe; to study.” He crouches down, face level with yours. “To pick apart and rebuild…” He reaches forward, drags the pad of his thumb along the bottom curve of your lip.

“Why me?” You whisper. “Why not Sam or Jack-”

“You were the closest lab rat,” he answers simply, full lips pulling to reveal some twisted parody of Dean Winchester’s dazzling smile. Your stomach flips. “Besides,” he continues, “I really needed a female, and you? Well, you were the easiest one to snag.”

Your heart’s hammering now, and you bring a trembling hand to gently - almost politely - push at his wrist. He does so, rises back to his height, then turns toward the sitting area. He rummages in the pocket of his overcoat that’s draped over the arm, and then your veins are icing all over again as he turns, showcasing a black leather collar dangling from two crooked fingers.

You’re frozen in your chair as he makes his way back over to you. “Lab rats generally require a cage, but let’s start simple. Shall we?”

Fire erupts inside you then, anger or pride - you’re not sure, but he won’t humiliate you so easily.  

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you seethe, so close to snarling. “You want a pet? Get a dog.”

That sickening grin is back, and it makes you clamp your mouth shut. “You really think you can fight me?  _Me?_ You’re bound here by  _Heavenly_  power.” His eyes are wild, dangerously dark, but they calm just as quickly, eyebrows smoothing. “But fight if you must - I  _do_  enjoy a challenge.”  

Your pride screams at you to fight, to scream, but logic tells you to do the opposite. You’re not dealing with a low-level Angel here. This is an Archangel. This is more power than you’ve ever faced - especially alone. So you play it smart; don’t say a word as he loops the strip of leather around your neck, and fastens it at the back. To anyone else, it might even look endearing, like a husband clasping a diamond necklace around his wife’s neck.

But there’s nothing charming about the way he attaches the leash to the little metal ring at the front, nothing enchanting about the way he tugs you to your feet, leading you to the wall.

You want to kick yourself when you look up; you’ve always been good at observing your surroundings, comes second nature to you as a hunter, but you’d failed to notice the metal hook protruding for the white paint.

The silence is thick as he fastens leather cuffs around your wrists, pulls the chains up to attach to the hook. Your captor gives you tight smile, promises a quick return - and then with a flutter of wings, he’s gone.

The chains give you enough slack to slide to the floor, and your eyes drop, heart sinking at the Enochian etched into the bindings around your wrists. You’re cut off; completely isolated.

You’re well and truly fucked.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally in possession of his perfect vessel, Michael can begin his mission. You’re his first experiment.

The hours pass painfully slow. Almost like watching the ticking hands of a clock, but somehow worse. There’s just…nothing. Nothing but the leather binds around your wrists and the empty quiet. It’s that quiet that’s the very worst because it’s so vast and wide and devoid of distractions. And you  _need_  a distraction. Anything to block out the buzzing panic that that heats your blood too hot and makes your head spin.

You try to blot out the thoughts, those vivid little snippets of how it all ends. You can only figure he’s gone back to finish Sam. There’s no way he’d let him live, not a threat of his caliber. Sam’s an impressive hunter, and Michael knows it.

Cas and Jack will surely be next. If he even  _can_  kill Jack, but you’re sure he can, especially after Lucifer had siphoned out his power like that. The poor, helpless kid.

Then there’s Dean. God. He could already be snuffed out. Michael seems the kind to do it. He didn’t take just any vessel. This was  _his_ , some kind of anatomic destiny - a bit skewed with the crossing of worlds, but God’s word is constant - or so you’d think.

Your tongue is heavy, sandpaper in your mouth, and  _god_  you’re thirsty. You’re facing that broad window, but you can’t see much from where you are, even with a testing stand. Just the tips of the surrounding building glittering under the afternoon sun. Tipping your head back, you let your eyelids drop, try to focus on the little staticky bursts of color, watch as they morph into designs and images.

It’s his presence that wakes you, pulls your consciousness from the foggy depths of sleep. His lips are the first thing your eyes snag upon; they’re stretched and parted just a little, just enough for a peek of ivory teeth. Then you see his eyes; juniper-green and glittering. He reaches forward, smile unwavering as he traces a finger along the smooth line of your jaw. His lips move, molding around foreign words that you mistake for Latin at first, but they’re too unfamiliar. Enochian, you realize. His voice is just a tick above a whisper; velvety and monotonic. A chant.

You start to feel a buzzing warmth, starts somewhere in your belly, then blooms outwards and floods your veins. This isn’t good; he’s got you under some kind of spell, but all you have to do is fight. You can do that, it’s what you do. You fight all the time, fight all kinds of things. This is no different. Your head’s light, but you’re just a little disoriented from the doze, just need to focus…

Green irises suddenly erupt with a brilliant blue, and you know you should look away - you do try in fact, but your gaze holds steady despite the little glow of defiance dammed up in the back of your mind. Your muscles start to jelly, like that warm melty feeling when the alcohol starts to hit. You feel relaxed, though you know you shouldn’t, but it feels nice not to be so knotted up with fear.

He’s speaking now, in your own tongue, voice honey-thick with words you understand. “This is better, isn’t it? Not to fight? To just…relax for once?” He tucks a chunk of hair behind your ear. “Deeper. That’s it.”

You can feel yourself slipping with every word, with every syllable. Your will is breaking apart like fine shards of glass, flicking away with every pulse of his burning gaze. The last spec of a hunter’s mind screams something like ‘mind control’, but you feel too sugary and heavy to really think much more on it. You want to sink deeper, want to immerse yourself into that thick, easy nothingness.

Seconds later, you’re there. You’re in your own body, but there’s a delicious vacancy to it, a comforting hollowness. Michael’s eyes dim back to green, watching you closely as he works your bindings free. “Stand,” he says, and you do, rising with him; stiff, but steady.

“You know,” he starts, voice a melody, “I’ve never used my Grace for this. Well, not  _quite_  like this. For this purpose.” He smiles closed-lipped as he runs a finger along the leather ridge of the collar at your throat. “You humans. You’re all so…basic; primal when you’re whittled down to the very core.” He drags his teeth over his lip, eyes shimmering. “You’re responding well. I think we could call this a success. Don’t you?”

“Success,” you murmur, like you’re trying out the word, or maybe your voice, for the very first time.

Michael grins, tilts his head, eyes roaming. “Strip,” he says, then takes a step back to grant you the space. “Slowly.”

You start with your boots, deft fingers working the laces loose. You set them to the side, slip off your socks to tuck them neat under the tongues. Michael folds his arms over his chest, stolen eyes steady and unblinking as he watches you peel your shirt off, watches you drag your jeans down to your shins before stepping out of them.

It feels good to bare yourself like this; feels freeing. Your panties cling the damp, velvety flesh of your cunt, the air fresh and cool as it washes against you. Michael brings a hand up, elbow propped against a still-folded arm as a thumb absently traces the plump curve of his lip as he watches your bra slip off with a literal snap. Your tits bounce as you stiffly move to drop it amongst the rest of your clothes.

“Very good,” Michael says, takes a smooth, gliding step forward until you can feel the heat of him. His smile  _gleams_  as he drinks you in. “Back against the wall,” he orders, voice steady. “Raise your arms.” He cuffs you again, arms drawn up tight and steepled at the wrists, but that’s okay because it’s safe. The restraints are enchanted; nothing can get to you, so yeah, this is okay.

“You’re going to wake up in a moment,” the Archangel says. “You’ll wake up after I snap my fingers, and I want a pure, honest reaction out of you.”

“Honest,” you murmur, voice faint. “Pure…”

You come to with a blinking jolt, limbs tingling like they’ve been asleep, but - you’re standing. A tight pull in your upper arms draws your head up - you’re still cuffed, still collared, the slack in the chains tightened. You feel…different somehow, changed, and you’ve lost…time. Mind reeling, you’ve completely missed your captor standing only inches before you. “What did you do?” you hiss, trying hard to sound venomous despite the icy wave of fresh panic unfurling inside.

Michael just smiles, drops his eyes to the floor then back to you. You shoot him a seething glare, then look down. You’re naked. Horribly, terrifyingly naked. Your jaw goes rigid, color flushing up under your cheeks in some mixture of shame and fury.

The rage seems take on most of the weight, and you can feel the simmering heat of it low in your gut, can feel it boiling up through you before finally tearing itself from your throat in a savage scream.


	4. Chapter 3

Michael’s been gone for some time, had just flapped away, left you naked and dazed and furious.

You’ve gone cold, enough to make your teeth clack together. There’s enough give in your chains for you to kneel on the floor, though you hate it, but it beats standing for all these minutes - or hours. You’ve given up on trying to keep track. The clock is gone, not that it matters; this is Michael’s sandbox; he can alter time, reality, anything that suits him.

A rustling sound flutters through the quiet, and there he stands; tall and broad and still. It takes a minute to find your voice. Your throat hurts, raw from screaming.

“Let me go,” you croak.

Michael smiles, crouches to your level, coat billowed around him, hands lax and clasped between his knees. “You were willing,” he says, voice creamy in contrast to Dean’s throaty gravel.

You feel the scrunch of your brows, the way your eyes narrow to slits. “You  _brainwashed_  me.”

The corner of his plush mouth pulls into a lazy smirk. “But it felt nice… didn’t it? Not to have to think. To simply… let everything…” His eyes rove over you. “Go?” The double meaning isn’t lost on you, and it makes your cheeks flood hot, makes fresh fury roil your blood.

“I didn’t have a choice!” you seethe, the words a furious grit through set teeth. “You really think I’d do  _anything_  for you willingly-”

“You will.” Michael’s face is hard, eyes dark, but he relaxes in a blink. “But… for now - let’s get rid of all that stress, hmm?”

“What?”

He keeps his eyes steady, but they’re glinting with something like mirth.

“No,” you breathe, “don’t-”

Pine hues erupt in an electric blue, puffed lips moving with that same Enochian chant. You can feel your thoughts receding, so with the last dregs of consciousness, you fight against it. “Nngh…no…” But the words float away as soon as they form.

Voice a soft rumble, Michael guides the drift. “You’re sinking now. Deeper… and deeper. Soon you’ll be under completely - and when that happens, you’re going to do something for me.” Your eyes glaze, drinking him in, and he really is beautiful, this man - or, no - not a man, but something powerful. It’s hard to remember. “You’re going to touch yourself,” he continues. “You’re going to rub away all those… pesky little thoughts. Thoughts like fighting back; like escaping. You really don’t want to leave anymore. You’re going to keep rubbing, faster and harder. Right where it feels the best - until all those nasty little thoughts drip right out of you.”

Yes, that sounds good. Thinking is… it’s hard. This is better, and - oh. There’s a pattern there in the swirling blaze of his cerulean eyes, like ripples in a swimming pool on a bright summer day.

You feel yourself sinking still; heavy and light all at once. Reaching down between your legs, you feel the soft wet of your folds, and press your fingers through, dragging up and down, and yes, that feels good.

Your fingers rasp over your clit, and you suck in a breath at the electric spark that zips through you.  _Where it feels the best,_  he’d said, and that’s where it is, where you’re hot and buzzing. You find an easy swirling motion, three fingers pressing firm.

Those eyes are on you, watching, and you don’t know why, really, but you just know that’s how it’s supposed to be.  

Michael’s head tilts a tic as he observes, and his voice is a soothing stream as he coaxes the bliss higher. “Very good,” he says, mouth curved up into a satisfied smirk. “That feels nice, doesn’t it?”

“Nice…” you echo, tone faint. You rub harder.

“Do you feel that tightness in your belly?” You whimper and nod, because yes, you can feel it; the muscles clenched up hot. “That’s all those ugly little thoughts.”  _Oh_. “That tension is going to break soon. You’ll shake and clench - but then it will all be over. Then you’ll be free. Won’t that be nice?”

“So nice…” It’s getting harder to see now, like you’re looking at him from behind a misty fog.

“Harder, pretty girl. That’s it.”

You amp up the speed, fingertips rubbing and grinding over and over that sweet spot, and you’re flushed hot all over, sweat breaking at your hairline, and the muscles in your thighs are drawing up; trembling.

“Stop,” he says, sudden, and you do, you bring you slick fingers away to lay on your thigh. “This will feel even better. You want to feel good, don’t you?”

“Yes… better…” you breathe, voice airy.

He’s holding something in his hand, some kind of… device? It looks familiar, sleek and black. It’s narrow at the end, a little pointed, black cord stringing from the end, and it broadens out at the tip to a bulbous, velvety looking head.

“I’ve been studying your kind for some time now,” Michael says, turning the thing in hand; inspecting. “You seem to be… fueled by… primal urges. So much that mere human contact doesn’t seem to be enough. These… I believe you call them toys? Are manufactured and sold, bringing in  _billions_  - just for what? A brief little blip of ecstasy?”

He doesn’t seem as pleased now, an air of derision to his voice, and that won’t do - he should be happy. That’s your duty, you think, to please him.

“Ecstasy,” you echo. “Happy.”

That seems to do it, because he smirks then, eyes still a blue-white flame. “You want to be happy,” he says, says it like it’s fact.

“I want to be happy,” you sigh, and you do. You don’t think you were happy before. It’s just so hard to remember…

“I’m about to make you very,  _very_  happy,” he gleams. He thumbs on the switch, and the toy starts to hum. Heat swells at the sound of it, and your mouth starts to dry, so you wet your lips as he shifts the device in his hand, flips it so the smooth head points to the floor.

He drops to his knees, ass on his heels, and you jolt when he presses the buzzing head to your clit. You feel the vibrations rolling up and melting into your veins, and  _oh_ , that feels so much better than your fingers.

A warm hand wraps around your knee, thumb stroking along the little dent on the the side of it, and he smiles a blinding smile as you gasp and whimper.

“Won’t be long now,” Michael says, and you hitch in a breath, because he’s right. Your belly’s like stone, core slick and hot, and you can feel the buzz igniting every nerve. You feel like you’re full of hot sand; weighed down, but your mind’s so blank and fuzzy, everything honed into the buttery heat under your skin.

“Go ahead,” he coaxes, and your eyes have fallen closed, but you can feel the blazing heat of them still- “Just let go. Let it all just… go.”

And, like a flipped switch, everything goes white and staticky. Your hips surge, pressing into the still-humming toy, and you’re wailing, tugging at your bindings as the heat rolls and bursts in fiery waves.

“See?” Michael says, thumbing off the device and letting it thump to the carpet. “Now all those thoughts are gone.” You smile sleepy. “Left me with such a  _pretty_  little mind to fill.”


	5. Chapter 4

Something’s different. You’re blinking, head light and a little fuzzy, and, well, you feel light all over. Like some kind of tremendous weight has been lifted. A lazy smile stretches your lips. It isn’t right, is it? This isn’t familiar, none of this is familiar, but it  _must_  be right, because you feel so good and a little sleepy, and - oh, and he’s still here. Broad and strong and so,  _so_  handsome - and you’re  _his_. How lucky you are that you belong to such a powerful Master - Master? Wait. No - not… No, that’s right. Your - your  _Master_. 

“How do you feel?” That voice. Oh, that voice is like the thickest honey, makes your blood buzz warm. He scootches up close, reaches up over your head, and relief blooms through your arms as he releases the bindings.

“I… um. Good.” Your grin widens. “Really… good. Happy..”

His own smile stretches, teeth blinding. “Good. On your knees.”

It takes significant effort, but you manage to heft yourself up on your knees. It isn’t comfortable, and you can feel yourself wince, but it’s important that you obey. Obeying feels good.  Your eyes fall to the cream carpet, feels right, like that’s where they’re supposed to be.

“I want you to listen to me,” he says, lips soft as they mold around his words. “Listen very carefully.”

“Listen…” you echo, and that’s weird, you don’t realize you’re speaking, the sound just kind of… slips off your tongue.

“We need to set a few rules. Rules are very important… wouldn’t you agree?”

“Rules… important.” 

The man gleams at your response, jade eyes deep and dark. “You will address me as Master and  _only_  Master.”

There it is. That word that came so easy just moments before. “Yes, Master…”

“Very good,” his smile is steady and you’re glad, so glad, because it’s very important to please him-

“You won’t make eye contact unless given permission to do so.”

“Yes, Master…”

“You won’t  _do_  anything unless given permission to do so. Eat… drink… bathroom… _anything._ Understand?”

“Yes, Master…”

“Denying me will result in a pain you’ve never known… though you won’t be able to deny me, will you? Not when I’m filling that empty little head.”

“I obey, Master…”

“You are my  _slave_  and you belong to me.”

“I am your slave. I belong to Master…”

“Very good, slave. Stand.”

There’s a considerable ache in your knees, legs stiff, but you heed his command and rise. He straightens himself, lifts himself to his own towering height, and tucks a chunk of hair behind your ear. Your chin stays dipped toward your chest, eyes pinned to the glossy shine of his shoes.

“Look at me, slave,” he commands, and you lift your head, let your eyes float to his. There’s a warmth in your chest because you’re just - you’re just so very lucky to have been chosen by such a merciful Master.

He only grins, then wraps the leash around the thick of his hand and tugs. “Come, slave.” 

He leads you to the wide window, soft white light hazing in through the fine curtains. “This is where you’ll stay while I’m gone.” A black iron cage sits just underneath the window, a plush black blanket smoothed along the floor of it. “It’s fitting, don’t you think?” he says, reaching forward to unfasten your leash. “Every one of your kind should have one. A reminder of your place in this world. In  _my_  world.”

“Yes, Master,” you agree, head bobbing with his words. “It’s perfect.”

He gives you a satisfied smirk and rolls up the leash, then tucks it back into his pocket. “Knees, slave.”

“Yes, Master,” you obey, and lower yourself to the floor.

He falls to a crouch beside you and pulls the door of the cage wide. “Go on,” he says with a hard jerk of his head. 

“Yes, Master.” You fall to your hands and crawl inside, shifting back around to face your owner. 

He remains crouched, long fingers curled around the solid bars, hard eyes hooked on yours. “Come closer,” he orders, and you knee forward, coming to a rest once you feel cool metal against bare skin. The man fits a thick finger between the bars and traces the soft curve of your bottom lip and grins wide.

“If Dean could see you now…”

*

The cage leaves you just enough room to sit comfortably, the roof mere inches from the top of your head. Your knees are drawn up to your chest, feet crossed at the ankles. It’s lonely without him. Time passes smoothly and you miss him, your Master, but he has important things to do. You can’t quite pinpoint what those things  _are_ , but they’re - important. 

So you’ll wait.

A flap of wings signals his return, and you can feel yourself flush, can feel your heart flutter and swell at his arrival. 

“And how are we feeling?”

You keep your gaze down and locked on your own feet. “Good, Master. I’ve missed you.”

“Have you?” A shadow washes over you as he kneels, gaze burning deep as he peers inside. “I have a reward for you,” he says, voice velvety. “Would you like that?”

“Yes, Master.”

“I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“Please…”

Fabric rustles, and then there’s a metallic rasp-

“Look at me, slave.”

Slowly, your eyes drift up, and-

Blood rushes straight to your cunt at the sight of him; on both knees, thick cock grasped in a massive hand. He strokes slowly, twisting a little when he gets to the head. 

“You want this… don’t you, slave?”

“Please, Master… Please - I… I want to make you feel good.”

“Then do it, slave. Suck.”

You scramble forward at his words, fumbling a bit as you fall to your hands and knees. He shuffles closer, feeding his dick between the bars and hot slick gathers between your legs as you take in the exquisite breadth of the shaft, the deep flush of the head.

In a breath, you’re licking the broad tip into your mouth, tongue already working at the hot flesh underneath. He grunts soft, then hitches forward, and tears spring to your eyes as he roughly bumps into the back of your throat. You gag and slide back, then reach up to pump your hand through the warm glisten your mouth’s left behind. 

“Look at me,” he rasps, and you flick your eyes up, cunt clenching at the soft part of his lips and the dark jade of his unblinking eyes. “Look at you, slave,” he rumbles, “naked and empty, serving as you were always meant to serve.”

Oh, that makes you groan, makes you drop hard on both hands and dive back down onto the meat of him. It’s sloppy, the way you work your mouth over him, the wet sounds of it cutting through the still of the room. 

There’s a deep, pulsing ache between your legs, and you want to rub it away, that would feel so nice, but you haven’t been given permission and it’s so important to obey - so you keep your hands planted into the soft blanket, and let the ache throb, let the wet slick down your thighs.

You’re using all the strength in your body now, to rock back and forth on him, tongue flat as it slips down the heavy length of the shaft, cheeks hollowed deep and lips tight. He’s so fat and hot in your mouth, and you just - you just really need him to come, need to taste him, and-

His hips twitch and then he’s spurting hot and thick and salty, coating your tongue and wall of your throat. You swallow enthusiastically, humming around the thick of him, lips still sealed tight so you can drink down all that he has.

He doesn’t make a sound as he comes, just jerks and shivers, then slides free. Gaze flitting back to his, you marvel up at him as his eyes flicker and spark to a brilliant topaz before dimming back to steady green. 

You settle back on your heels, panting and licking at your swollen lips, still dizzy with the taste of him.

His cock lies soft and limp over the gape of his slacks, and he doesn’t seem to be in any kind of a hurry to tuck himself away. 

“Did you like that?” he grins, head ducked down to hold your gaze. 

“Yes, Master. Thank you for my reward.”

“It feels good to serve, doesn’t it?” the man glitters.

“Feels good to serve…” Your head is fuzzy, but you’re so warm, so happy and sated despite the wet pounding between your thighs. 

“Perfect,” he says, then reaches in to stroke your hair. “Sleep now. Even a worthless little human like you needs rest.”

“Yes, Master…”  The words tumble soft and lazy over your lips and then there’s a firm press of two warm fingers before you fall into nothing.


	6. Chapter 5

“Come on…” His voice is warm and soothing as he coaxes you out of your shelter. You’re stiff from sleep, a little achy in the knees as you crawl out the open door, but you feel… nice; content. “You need to eat, slave.”

Oh, yes. Food. You’re definitely hungry - your grumbling belly tells you as much. You start to rise to your feet, but a heavy hand clamps down on your shoulder-

“Did I tell you to walk, slave?” His voice is hard and icy cold… You’ve angered him. And that just won’t do.

Sinking back to your knees, arms loose at your sides, you swing pleading, hollow eyes up to his. “Please, Master… I obey.”

“You do. So  _crawl_ ,” he commands; voice deep and eyes cold.

“Yes, Master.” You let yourself drop to all fours, keep frozen until he moves again. The carpet fibers make their marks into your knees and palms as you slither after your new owner, your leash looped around his fist as he leads you toward the dining table.

“Knees,” he orders as soon as you reach the polished piece of furniture, and you’re quick to comply, smoothly pushing off your hands and pulling your ass down to your heels. Your head stay bowed, eyes snagged on the carpet. “Good, slave,” the man praises, and smooths his warm palm over your scalp. “Your obedience pleases me.”

Eyed still downcast, a smile blossoms over your face. “Oh, thank you, Master! Master should always be happy!”

“I should,” he agrees, uses the heel of his palm to tip your head back so your gazes meet. “A happy Master makes a happy slave.”

“Happy…slave…”

“Absolutely fascinating…” the man murmurs. He’s so beautiful. You’re so lucky to have such a beautiful Master. He gets the knuckle of his index finger under your chin, and swipes the pad of his thumb across the plump curve of your bottom lip. “Open.”

You drop your jaw at his words, sighing when he hooks his thumb over your bottom teeth, rubbing over the hot wet of your tongue. You close your lips around him, warm slick alreading gathering between your legs as he works his thumb in and out. “Just  _look_  at you,” the man rumbles. ‘So… pathetic, aren’t you? So needy. I can  _smell_  your want for this, slave.” You moan at his words, desperate for just the simple taste of him. “Took no time at all, did it?” He pulls his thumb free, leaves you a little cross-eyed and panting. “As much as I’d love to drain you even more…” His eyes glint, lips drawing up into a smirk, “you really must eat, slave.”

“Yes, Master… Must… eat.”

“Eyes on me,” he says, then reaches beyond your line of sight, and returns with a ripe strawberry loosely pinched between his fingers. He brings the fruit to your lips, and you eagerly open up for him. He smiles soft as you bite into it. “I could let you feed yourself, of course,” your owner says, catching a trickle of juice that tries to escape from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. “But you’re not even worth that. You’re just a weak, simple little creature that can’t even function on its own. It needs its Master. It needs to be controlled.”

Controlled. That’s right. That’s what you need. It’s very important that Master controls you, that Master thinks for you. Master is, well, Master is everything.

 

*

_Stop!_

Michael sighs and sets the bowl of fruit on the floor in front of the naked, kneeling woman.

 _Dean, just relax now,_ Michael says in his shared head. He glides to the window, soft sunlight catching on stolen eyelashes, highlighting tiny flecs of gold submerged in pools of cool emerald. _Don’t worry about her. I have plans for her. For all of you._

 _No,_ Dean seethes. _I won’t let this happen, you understand me? You sonof-_

_Oh, you won’t? It took almost nothing to reduce this proud… huntress to, well, nothing. What do you think I could do to you, Dean? Hmm? I can pull you apart, atom… by atom._

_What about your perfect vessel?_ Dean counters,  _You won’t destroy me. You need me._

 _Vessel?_  Michael echoes, perplexed. _Oh. Right. You thought I meant all of you. No, Dean. You’re mind. That’s all I really need to destroy, isn’t it? Just like I’ve destroyed hers. You see, Dean…_ The Archangel brings a hand up to the window, fingers skimming across the glass.  _You’re still here, just tucked away deep inside your own head. I’m… disassembling hers. It’s fascinating really - such strong creatures. Made in my Father’s image, yet… look how easy it is to defeat them. To pick them apart until they’re merely human shells._

 _Not her,_ Dean implores.  _Do what you want to me, just - not her. Please._

Michael smirks proud, shimmers at the faded reflection in the window. “I have plans, Dean,” he rumbles low and aloud, not that the slave would pay any mind. She doesn’t have much left anyway. The Angel stretches Dean’s lips into a twisted grin.

“I have plans for all of you.”


End file.
